Her
by Pallas-Athena
Summary: Atton and the Exile have tea.


_Atton and the Exile have tea._

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Tea. 

He always thought it was just an expression: "Let's discuss it over tea." No one actually served tea or drank it. At least not in Atton Rand's experience. It was some remnant of the past, when posh dignities wearing ridiculous costumes met in equally ridiculous ballrooms and talked about their dowries and inheritances.

So when he entered the main hold and saw her sitting there with a tea pot and two cups, he had to take pause.

"I'm a little underdressed," he said sardonically, looking down pointedly at his usual fare of a brown jacket and trousers.

She raised an eyebrow at that and smirked. "No, just undereducated." She didn't say it cruelly – her tone was never harsh – and he had the feeling that she hadn't meant it as an insult. "Please, sit down."

He obliged because he always did what she asked him to. And it wasn't due to Kreia's manipulations – the witch – but because it was _her_ doing the asking. It was the way she ducked her head down when she requested something for herself, so different from the take-charge general that Boa-Dur praised and the proud Jedi Mical practically worshiped.

She was often shy when talking to him, meek almost. Upon witnessing her reactions to the others and learning more about her colorful history from the crew that had know her in the days of the Jedi Civil War, he had come to the conclusion that she was as supreme an influencer as any Jedi would be – pretending to be everything to everyone. It hurt him at first, angered him that she would use him so.

But a brief comment from Mira, as they passed each other in the cargo hold, had mollified him, even if that was never her intention.

"Break her heart," she had said, "and I'll break your spine."

And so he found himself sitting down next to her, attempting to look comfortable despite the uncomfortable chairs and situation. She poured the tea, her hands going through the motions like she practiced them daily.

"It's called apospice," she said.

He nodded and hoped his cautious sniff of the contents of his cup didn't appear too obvious. It smelled good enough – sweeter than its name suggested. Still he waited for her to drink first.

A small sip. He followed her lips as they bushed the rim of the glass and moved away, all the while telling himself that he was simply watching to see if she found the tea too hot. He always ended up like this, he knew – looking at her when he wasn't supposed to. She put him into a stupor, there was no other way to describe it. Sometimes the daze would last so long that he lost complete track of time and he would become aware of himself once again when only Mical's jealous stare would fill his frame of vision.

He couldn't let that happen here, though. Not this time. He was too anxious, too worried about what she would say to him, what this proposed discussion would lead to.

There had been a neatly folded pile of robes on his bed this morning. Jedi robes. And a lightsaber.

He didn't know the first thing about lightsabers. How to point the thing business-end up completely eluded him ... not to mention turning it on.

But the robes, oh the robes. They weren't like the ones she or Kreia or Mical wore. They were different. The brown was almost a red, the white under-tunic completely forgotten in favor of a folding clasp in the cloak.

They were like the ones that _she_ wore. The other _her_ that claimed his love, stopped his heart, ripped it out of his chest, and showed him everything, all misery and love and beauty, in a single moment. And he had screamed.

Because they were so like the robes of the one that he had killed.

So like the robes of the first one that had loved him.

He had calmed soon after, counting the cards – always counting the cards – and, once he realized no one had heard his outburst, he went to her while she was working with Mira and told her in no uncertain terms that he would not be wearing them.

She had looked sad and simply said, "Let's discuss it over tea."

Her expectant gaze brought him back into the present and all but ordered him to try the tea for himself. He did so – again without hesitation because it was _her_ doing the asking.

A deep, rich flavor greeted him, tingling and warming his tongue and throat. He set his cup down, feeling the wave of warmth glide from his middle and through his limbs. It danced with him, all heat and rhythm and joy, much like he often imagined she would do if their bodies were ever pressed so close.

He blinked. "It's good. Where's it from?"

"A gift from Queen Talia."

"Pompous politicians and their tea and dowries," he said, annoyed. He had rather liked Talia's ballroom, however. Especially after Vaklu had annihilated it.

She looked puzzled."Dowries? Did Talia offer you ...?"

"No!" he corrected immediately. Sure, he had flirted with the young ruler, but only in the presence of _her_, and only in the hopes that she would notice. She hadn't, at least not in the way that mattered, and continued to be her innocent and oblivious self. He'd given up attempting to make her notice him through jealousy, and they had grown all the closer for it. "Just –" he paused, wondering if he should try to explain his bizarre notions of tea to her – "never mind."

He took another drink, this one more a gulp than a sip. The soft heat spun around him again, no harsher than it was before.

Her lips curved into a tight, small smile and the ends quivered slightly as if she wanted to make it larger but was fighting the urge. She too drank again, but her movements remained delicate, reverent.

"It's not just for the nobility of Onderon," she said. "It's a ceremonial tea that all the citizens partake in." Such the instructor, so ready to teach.

"Ceremonial?" he repeated, nervous. The idea of his Jedi indoctrination loomed over his head, and he half worried that she was going to make him sacrifice a nerf or something to fully join their ranks.

She cocked her head, looking pensive for a moment. "Perhaps that isn't the right word. Celebratory?" She said the word as if to test it. It appeared to pass and please her.

He glanced down towards his half empty cup, studying for the first time the amber liquid. It was pure, as far as he could tell, undiluted by sugars or creams.

"It's given only as a gift," she continued her lecture. "People aren't supposed to buy it for themselves. And it's served only on special occasions. Weddings, births, deaths ..."

"... battle victories," he concluded for her. If kicking Vaklu's butt wasn't cause for celebration, he didn't know what was.

"No," she said. "The gift can be any occasion – even Talia's thanks for our help – but the drinking: that's limited to only certain times. Like now."

"Like now?" What did them sitting here in the_Hawk_'s hold have to do with birth and death and marriage? Those were things that normal people worried about, and the ragtag crew here was anything other than normal.

"It's all connected," she explained in that cryptic way of hers. Another smile, this time she didn't hold back the raising of her lips' corners. The expression was one of triumph.

"By what?"

"Love." She took another drink, her final sip he realized, before setting the cup down as gently as she had picked it up. "It's drunk for love."

His heart again stopped, but there was no ripping this time. Instead it felt patched, repaired anew. Because of _her_. She had finished what the other had started. Misery and love and beauty and death and life. It was all connected.

"Finish your tea and get some sleep," she said as she rose.

He did not stop her as she left the main hold, did not remind her that they hadn't yet discussed what he had came here to discuss. In a way they already had, he supposed – must be some of that Jedi wisdom rubbing off on him.

Instead he finished his tea like she had asked. Because it was _her_ doing the asking.


End file.
